


Shall We Dance?

by orphan_account



Category: Don't Hug Me I'm Scared (Short Film)
Genre: Duelling, Sexual Tension, Temporary Character Death, best to be safe and stuff, the violence isn't that graphic but y'know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How lovely was the music that played in their minds as they danced their circles around one another, battling with wit and with knives. Evening blends into night as they waltz about the room madly, the entire universe stopping to observe this odd show of rivalry, or perhaps affection, or perhaps even both.<br/>Some drabble written to vent my obsession with these two as enemies/lovers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shall We Dance?

**Author's Note:**

> If you had asked me two weeks ago if I ever thought I'd be shipping a notebook with a clock, I'd look at you and ask if you were on drugs. But alas, here I am doing just that. This is what fandom does to you, isn't it?

Their movements are like a dance, waltzing around each other to a tune no one can hear, eyes locked. Neither dares to move their weapon hands, each simply watching the other to spot any shifts in position that may indicate their first attack.

“Tick, Tock, Miss Notebook,” warns the blue man in his dapper suit. “You know we haven’t the time to dawdle like this.”

“Tsk, tsk,” replies the woman of pastel hair and wild eyes, “Now you know you can’t rush creativity.”

One final step, and both figures turn to face each other, their dance of death drawing to a sudden halt. Even the painted clock’s hands on the man’s face and the twirling sketches of the woman’s skirt stop their usual motion. The universe itself watches with bated breath as eyes narrow and weight shifts.

There is a silence, a stillness for a few moments, and the duelists take in deep whiffs of the air in unison, exhaling tensely in a strange sort of harmony.

The waltz is over, and the music only the two figures seem able to hear shifts to something of a faster pace, their steps keeping in time with the same beat as they charge, weapons brandished fearsomely. A pencil sharp enough to slice flesh while strong enough to cut bone clashes with an elaborate rapier adorned with cogs and wires, each gripped tightly in the hands of their owners. With every crash of imagined cymbal, the blades meet again between the determined faces of the figures without names.

Hissed curses through gritted teeth become the lyrics to the song which plays in their heads, and their voices raise from a whisper to a murmur, letting the tune course through their veins and boil their blood so their battle may continue.

“You’re going to need to think more creatively if you intend to defeat me, good sir,” taunts the woman, widening her lips into a warm smile dripping with such sweetness it could rot one’s teeth from their skull.

“All in good time, milady,” assures the man, his own bravado tugging at the corners of his mouth. His blade clangs against the pencil she holds, threatening but never able to tear it from her hand.

The smallest beads of slick sweat are forming on their foreheads now, and the murmur of the song they sing swells to a hum, and to a belt, and to a shouting of every word and every note that passes from their minds to their mouths, harmonizing in perfect time effortlessly. Every syllable promises death but never quite acts, merely swings a weapon in a knowingly feeble attempt to pierce flesh.

As their voices rise, their dance intensifies, each figure spinning and stepping in flawless rhythm once more, the unison of their improvised dance unnerving as they pull away and then join together once more.

Their blood burns and their mouths snarl, and the woman lunges in for an unexpected attack. The man with blue skin and blonde-tipped hair pivots and slashes with his own blade, dodging the woman’s swing but missing his own.

“It seems we are locked in a stalemate,” remarks the man.

“Yes, it seems so,” agrees the woman, sidestepping another jab of his rapier.

The two figures walk in tight circles now, heads turned to the sides to face each other, shoulders bumping with every step. They can feel their breath mixing, scents of sticks and fish and metal gears mingling between them.

The woman laughs to herself, as if she has just thought of a brilliant joke. “Tick, Tock, Mr. Clock. Your time is almost up.” Still grinning widely, she stabs the point of her pencil through the front of the blue man’s coat, straight into his heart.

He coughs, still maintaining his unbreakable composure and says with a pleasant smile, “Now that was hardly a creative line, Miss Notebook. You could have done so much better.”

She shrugs simply. “You insisted upon rushing, and so I was left with no other choice.” An air of condescension finds its way into her eyes, but it is quickly punished and wiped away by the blue man’s rapier impaling her stomach.

“You should know not to let your guard down,” he scolds, a breathless smile still hanging on his face.

She ignores his comment. “It has been a pleasure to dance with you, Mr. Clock. My only regret is that the song did not last longer.”

He chuckles. “I am honored to die at your hands, Miss Notebook. It has indeed been a pleasure.”  
“And I you,” chokes the woman.

The bright-haired woman’s arms cradle the blue man’s head as the figures fall to their knees, bearing their grins with pride even as their eyes slide shut and their limbs begin to go limp, their blood pooling and mixing on the ground around their legs.

“Miss Notebook, may I ask you a question?” inquires the man weakly.

The woman opens her eyes a crack, looking at him. “Certainly.”

“Are we in love?”

At this the woman giggles dryly, wheezing each breath. “Only time will tell, Mr. Clock.”

“Only time will tell,” he concedes, too defeated and too exhausted to pursue his question further.

And as their final breaths waft into the air, tinting it with their strange and horrid and beautiful odors once more, they feel their muscles relax into the escaping warmth of each other’s bodies.

The last chord of their song can be heard, and oh, how it rings through the room and the world and the very universe itself, dissonant and pure. It shakes every being to its core, from the simplest organism to the greatest thinker.

The room is left cold and numb, colors seeping from the woman into the floor and up the walls, creeping its way across the ceiling. From the man came a slow ticking, increasing in pace and volume until the room quaked with it so roughly it seemed the walls might crumble and crush the still bodies within it.

The man’s eyes blink open first, a sharp gasp being drawn into his lungs. The woman follows suit only seconds later, looking about the room with her dying smile.

The colors shrinks from the walls and the monstrous ticking ceases, and the blue man helps the colorful woman to her feet, yanking her weapon from his chest and handing it to her.

The woman, still in death’s daze, clumsily pulls the man’s blade from her gut, allowing the wound to heal properly. She offers the rapier to him, and he accepts it graciously.

“I do believe I hear our song playing again. Shall we dance a second time, Mr. Clock?” she queries boldly, stepping in time to the inaudible music around the invisible circle their feet had traced earlier once more.

“We shall,” he replies, dusting his pants off and joining her in the circle, taking his place across from her and matching her steps.

“I wish the best of luck to you in this match, then, Mr. Clock.”

“And I you, Miss Notebook.”


End file.
